


Onions and Mouths

by MasonRust



Category: Thunderbirds
Genre: Family, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-07
Updated: 2015-11-07
Packaged: 2018-04-30 11:11:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5161613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MasonRust/pseuds/MasonRust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gordon is recovering from a rescue that goes wrong and John makes an unexpected appearance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Onions and Mouths

Gordon was lying on his back staring at the ceiling. At some point Vigil had come to the door but he’d pretended to be asleep and, like a cat, Virgil had crept soundlessly away. He knew he should be swimming, doing something, anything to keep his mind away and his body moving but he just couldn’t summon the energy or will to move. So Gordon wallowed in his memories and in the black pool that he often dipped his toes in. The memory that welled up seemed to come from nowhere, and while he normally shuffled the ones from the pool away, he let this one play out behind his eyes.

When he walked into the kitchen, Gordon noticed John was crying. He’d been worried for a long moment, going over to see if anything was wrong. But John had laughed and continued cutting the onion up, explaining why the onion was making him cry. Gordon had asked what he was cooking, and the reply was sausage rolls, Alan’s favorite.   
“Why don’t you ever cook my favourite?”  
It had been hard to keep the whine out of his voice, but Gordon had been satisfied with the result. John paused in his cutting and looked down at him, their height difference back then almost more than a foot.   
“I don’t know your favourite.”  
That had hurt, like a knife in his belly. John cooked for Scott and Alan and Virgil but not for Gordon. He must have noticed the change in Gordon’s face because he frowned.   
“You said it wasn’t nice to pick favourites from so much good stuff.”  
Feeling instantly better, Gordon had made a show of thinking while John tipped the meat into the pan and the onion began to sizzle.   
“Shepard’s Pie.”  
“Huh?”  
“That’s my favourite thing you cook.”  
“Well, how about next time I cook I’ll cook it for you.”  
“Deal!”

The next time John had cooked it hadn’t been Shepard’s pie and it hadn’t been for Gordon; no, it had been for Alan again. This time the hurt was a dull ache, but somewhere deep in Gordon’s chest because there was another ache, another pain. This pain was one of a suddenly cut-off transmission, followed by an explosion that had obliterated every part of the ship. There hadn’t even been a body for the coffin. And so Scott and Virgil and John and Alan and himself had been dressed in black, again, standing in front of a hole, again, burying a parent, again. A whole set of again’s that this time left Scott in charge. They all cried differently, and Scott had cried like they were being torn from his body until he’d bled out and then all that was left was anger and a lingering pain. Gordon had wept, like he’d always wept and Alan had tried not too but ended up crying anyway. Virgil’s face had been stony despite the tears on his cheeks and John’s face was carved from marble, his eyes unable to leak liquid.  
It had been at midday, after Virgil and Alan had disappeared, leaving only dirty plates and broken glass in the sink. The door was slightly ajar and something had made Gordon pause to look into the slither of light. Scott was standing, talking to John’s emotionless hologram.   
“Look John I need you down here.”  
“I’m busy Scott, this is important.”  
It wasn’t the hologram that made John’s face look emotionless – it was the stone underneath the skin itself, only visible in the blank eyes.   
“Look.”  
Scott slammed his hands on the desk and Gordon jumped at the sound. He faced the tiny hologram, knuckles white and wrapped around the edges of the table.  
“John.”  
Scott’s hands tapped it again, slapping lightly on the surface with no real power or emotion behind the gesture. There was something helpless in the movement.   
“I can’t do this. I just can’t. Gordon won’t swim, doesn’t get out of bed; Alan won’t talk to me and keeps shouting at Virgil. Virgil… I don’t know. He just disappears into his room, into the studio. I can’t do this John.”  
“Yes you can. I seem to remember you telling me to keep my fucking nose out of your business last night. And that you can handle it and to shut the fuck up because I don’t know what I’m talking about.”  
Scott didn’t say anything and Gordon knew what he was talking about; they’d all heard the fight. Every word of it.   
“I’m sorry John. I’m so sorry.”  
Scott had dropped back into the chair, face in his hands.   
“I can’t do it. I can’t deal with it.”  
There was a long silence, and then John’s voice sounded again, softly.   
“I’ll be down in three hours.”  
“Thanks.”  
Scott’s reply had been whispered and Gordon crept away into the hall.

He’d avoided John, keeping out of the way and trying to hold himself together. John disappeared down to the beach after Virgil and they were there until the sun dropped below the horizon and the moon started to rise. It was the smell of onion and pastry that drew him to the kitchen. Gordon couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten. John was cutting onions, tears dripping down his face but Gordon had a feeling they’d been there before he’d started cutting. He’d helped him silently, checking the pastry and fetching various ingredients. The dinner had been silence, terse, and all Gordon found himself able to do was stare at his plate and occasionally shove some food into his mouth. He left before Alan started shouting at John and instead of listening stuck a pillow over his head and stared into the darkness.

Gordon shook his head and refocused on the ceiling, a difficult job to do in the field of white. Gordon shifted again, considering pulling the blinds shut. Last night he’d stumbled into Scott’s room for the debriefing, and repeated himself over and over again, going over everything, every mistake, every failure he’d made. And when he finished, Scott had looked at him and frowned, mouth opening to say something about how he’d messed up and Gordon had burst into tears. Normally, he would have felt embarrassed but all he felt was sick and tired and he knew that he’d fucked up. Scott had muttered something about how it wasn’t his fault and then wrapped him in a hug. They’d sat there until Gordon had run out of tears and then Scott had walked him into his room and Gordon had gone to bed. Then he’d woken up and now he was watching the light and trying not to remember the sounds of screaming. Or rather, the absence of screaming. The sound didn’t carry properly underwater. Feeling ill at the thought, at the image of the trapped faces with black holes of mouths gaping for air that wasn’t there, Gordon bolted upright and leapt off the bed. Time to do leave the room and the faces with it.

There was a fantastic smell in the living room, and Gordon sniffed at the air. It was food, proper not-burnt food. For a moment, he wondered if Grandma had finally succeeded in making something edible but banished that thought. Even he knew that you had to use ingredients in something resembling a ratio. Padding down to the kitchen, the tall figure at the counter made him start.   
“John? What are you doing?”  
John flashed him a grin before flicking his gaze back to the counter.   
“Trying not to cut my fingers off.”  
Gordon moved closer and sat down opposite the bench, watching John chop garlic. The oven was on and there was a pan sizzling with mince and carrot, and next to it one with potatoes. There were two plasters already on John’s fingers and he was being very cautious in avoiding a third.   
“What are you cooking?”  
John didn’t cook. John hadn’t cooked since that evening when they were still mourning, Alan’s words making a deeper impact than he probably knew.  
“Shepard’s Pie.”  
Gordon stared at him and John smiled without looking up.   
“It’s about time I paid you what I owed you.”  
Gordon smiled slightly, suddenly feeling teary and a lot better. There wasn’t much some affection and a good meal could fix, along with expensive psychiatry bills.


End file.
